A man’s home is his castle, surrounded by walls; deep inside lays a garden, unbeknownst to all. Over time its flowers wither away, no seeds blow in on the windy days. The walls are too high, the darkness to thick; a barren empty place, hidden far from grace. The man walks alone in his garden of shadows, so deep in his palace no one can follow.  He tends the garden as if it would bloom, but alas, its dry thistles continue to loom. In the moonlight he walks, with only his thoughts, dreaming of roses in the land of the lost.  One night while out on his midnight stroll, a fragile leaf ventured out from the soil.  It was rich and deep from years of decay, the base of a sanctuary for her to stay.  His hands ripped and scarred from the thistles and thorns, he tore them down to protect her from scorns. His melancholy tears fell to the ground, watering her roots without even a sound.  From his balcony perch, high up above; he watched her grow from the sorrow he’d sowed.  Her leaves would be wounded by winters embrace, and storms would break shoots from her emerging base.  He cut back the damage with mercy and grace, despite the thorns piercing his hands and face.  In moonlight she thrived, filling all the space, a secret treasure in this lonely place.  With patients and time she began to bloom, her violet roses brighter than the light of the moon. He would reach for her beauty to hold in his hands, praying it wouldn’t fall, through his fingers like sand.  To the delight of his eyes, the rose opened up, exposing the inner most petals to touch.  He intimately pressed them against his face and his heart once again began to race.  His forgotten skin starving for a lovers embrace, his soul hungry for passions forgotten taste.           

Brooke Horan